The Fire and The Rose
by Edith Crowe 7/89
Originally published in Definitions of Love 2
Catherine finished her notes with a flourish, pleased with herself at having completed her morning's work with twenty minutes to spare. Now if she could just pack up in record time and escape before some crisis reared its ugly head...
"In a big hurry, aren't you, Chandler?"
Catherine's heart sank. She faced her boss with a look calculated to wilt a cactus.
"Hey, don't worry, you'll get your afternoon off, and tomorrow too. Before you left, though--I just wanted to tell you I've finally got you figured out."
"Oh?" Catherine eyed Joe suspiciously as he made himself at home on a corner of her desk. "What will you do for a hobby now?"
"Sarcasm doesn't work on me, Radcliffe--I know you just do that to distract me; to keep me from discovering your deep dark secret."
Only long practice enabled Catherine to keep her voice even. "And what might that be?"
"Well, let's look at the evidence." Joe was obviously enjoying himself and had no intention of coming to the point anytime soon. Catherine reminded herself to breathe slowly and concentrated on relaxing her grip on the pencil she clutched in her hand. "From day one on this job, you started digging up leads-and witnesses-that streetwise, experienced investigators kept missing. How, I kept asking myself, does somebody who spent her life in posh schools and an upscale corporate law firm do that?"
"Joe, you promised me the afternoon off, and that's only fifteen minutes away..."
"Ha! That was the clue! That's how I figured out your secret."
"What?" Catherine was torn between fear and utter confusion.
"Chandler, you are the only person on this staff who seems to consider Halloween an official government holiday. For the past two years, you've asked for that day off, and the day after."
"Joe, you keep telling me I don't go out enough; now you take exception because I take the day off instead of coming in and trying to work when I haven't had enough sleep-like several others around here I could name."
Joe looked faintly guilty but plunged ahead undaunted. "This year clinched it. Chanukkah and Christmas are almost at the same time. Everybody in this office started pestering me in September to let them take off the week between Christmas and New Year's-except guess who?"
Catherine attempted, with reasonable success, to look affronted. "You should be grateful that I'm so accommodating, Mr. Maxwell. Someone has to mind the store."
"OK, Radcliffe, you get a gold star. It's not when you're willing to work that interests me, it's when you want off. Christmas week, no problem-but you insist on having the week before Christmas-or at the very least, you've got to start your vacation on December 21st."
"OK, I confess, I didn't ask for the same vacation as everyone else. What does that make me guilty of-unpredictability in the first degree?"
"Exhibit A: She gets results nobody with her background should be able to get. Exhibit B: She always takes off on Halloween. Exhibit C: She takes off on the Winter Solstice." Joe pointed at her triumphantly in his best courtroom manner. "Chandler--you're a witch!"
Catherine stared at him as the sense of his words sank in. With an exaggerated moan, she dropped her head in her hands. It was the reaction he was expecting, after all; it was part of the game. It also kept him from seeing the relief that was too overwhelming to hide.
After a moment Catherine raised her head. "All right, Counselor, you've got me. I should have known a brilliant legal mind such as yours would figure things out before long."
Joe smirked happily. "I might be persuaded to forget it, actually. All you'd have to do for me would be work like a slave, give me all the credit, maybe season tickets to the Yankee games..."
Catherine looked at him speculatively as she put on her coat. Picking up the pencil, she pointed it at him in her most threatening manner. "Joe, when you try to blackmail a witch, consider this-who would vote for a frog as Mayor of New York?"
As Catherine let herself into her apartment she wondered if the cab driver was even now calling to report an escaped lunatic. Surely he wondered why his fare kept chuckling to herself at odd moments for no apparent reason. She sank onto the sofa gratefully and kicked off her shoes. Then again, this was New York...cabbies probably were used to that sort of thing. Maybe he would have noticed if she had hysterics in the back seat, which she had been sorely tempted to do. Even now, remembering the fear Joe's words had first roused in her left her weak. Catherine was very glad she had given herself plenty of time to get ready for Peter's party tonight. She needed time to relax and calm down. What a year it had been...
Brigit O'Donnell would be pleased with me, Catherine thought. I'm starting to think like a pagan Celt. Some months after their first meeting Brigit had sent her a book on the Old Religion, and Catherine was intrigued to discover that Samhain was the first day of the old Celtic New Year. Like all Celtic holidays, it ran from sunset to sunset, so Halloween was really its beginning. A few years ago it would have seemed strange to think of beginning a year at time that meant "summer's end," when the world was well on the way toward darkness...but darkness meant something very different to Catherine now than it had in the days when a carefree summer full of sun and shining water seemed the high point of the year.
Darkness had a much more complex meaning now. It was Vincent's protection when he ventured into her world, after all. Since meeting him she welcomed the lengthening nights because they gave him more time to spend with her, more time for him to escape the confines of the Tunnels that were at once refuge and prison. Summer meant she went Below more and more-like Persephone in reverse-so they could be together without endangering him. Especially this summer. Nothing seemed as important now as keeping Vincent safe. Suddenly cold, she rose to light the fire. Appropriate to the season after all; light the Samhain fire so the sun would have the strength to return, so darkness would not swallow the light forever, so the balance would be preserved.
Comforted by the warmth of the flames, Catherine let her mind drift back to the previous spring, when that delicate balance had almost been lost. No threat she had ever faced, not even to her own life, had frightened her as much as the threat of losing Vincent. Those weeks had been the hardest she had ever known, because watching his pain was so much harder than suffering her own. Blow after blow had rained down on them, almost toppling the fragile structure of their life together; a structure that had been built so carefully, so slowly. Catherine sighed. Life had certainly taught her by then that destruction was much easier than creation.
After Spirko's expose had been thwarted and Paracelsus had died, she thought they could begin the work of building again-only to find the fiercest dragon remained to be slain... or tamed. The descent into the darkness to bring Vincent back to himself, and to her, was the most important journey she had ever undertaken, perhaps ever would. The work of healing was slow after that, but she was determined. She had come too close to losing everything that mattered. No task was more important. She remembered the Summer solstice ...
* * *
"Catherine! I didn't expect you so soon." Vincent rose quickly from his chair to greet her.
"Absolutely no one at work seemed inclined to stay late today, not even Joe. Must be because it's the first day of summer. I've never heard of summer fever, but I think the DA's office has it." Catherine put down the book she carried to take the hands Vincent offered her.
"The longest day of the year," Vincent said softly, averting his face. "You should not be spending it underground." Catherine captured his chin in her hand and turned him to face her. "Sunlight," she said firmly, "is vastly overrated. It's even hazardous to your health-ask Father." Her voice turned serious. "I am exactly where I want to be, Vincent. Don't ever think otherwise."
Vincent looked at her for a long moment, then dropped his gaze to the book she had returned. The Hero with a Thousand Faces. You've had that a long time."
"Actually, I still do." She curled up on the bed while Vincent settled himself in the chair beside her. "I decided to buy my own copy. I think I've become Mr. Smythe's best customer." She smiled at Vincent. "It's hard to believe that only a little over two years ago, all I needed to guide my life was a collection of corporate law texts and the latest issue of Vogue. Now, Joseph Campbell seems much more to the point."
"You exaggerate, Catherine," Vincent admonished. "You have always had a great love for books." He stared at the book he held, turning it over and over in his hands. "Catherine..." His voice was rough and he didn't look at her. "No hero of legend was ever braver than you. What you risked, to follow me into the dark..."
"Vincent!" Her voice was soft, but very determined. "I told you once there was no darkness, as long as I was with you. I've never had cause to change my mind. Oh, I was afraid, terrified-of losing you. I was afraid for you, but not of you. I knew you would never hurt me."
"How could you know something I don't know myself?" Vincent cried, rising from the chair and turning to face her from across the room.
Catherine gazed at him steadily. "You always told me to follow my heart." She chose her words as carefully as she knew how, trying to project her conviction to him. "Vincent, this is something both my heart and my mind tell me. This bond we have-you told me it's something unique, something you've never had with anyone else."
"Yes."
"When Paracelsus gave you that drug..." she winced at the pain that memory brought to his face, but forced herself to go on. "You were lost then, too. No one could reach you, not even Father. But I could. Vincent, have you ever wondered what our bond is for, why it is?"
Vincent looked at her like a drowning man who sees a distant shore. "No... perhaps I was afraid that it would disappear if I looked at it too closely ... that it was somehow presumptuous to question a miracle."
Catherine held out her hand and Vincent slowly moved toward her to take it as he returned to his chair. "I believe that bond is very special, Vincent," she said earnestly. "I don't think you could ever lose yourself so far that you wouldn't know me. I don't think you could ever hurt me."
Vincent looked at her for a long time, then sighed—but offered no further argument. Catherine drew his hand to her lips and kissed it, gently as a whisper. "Come on." She rose from the bed and pulled him to his feet. "I brought a large box of very sinful chocolate cookies. If we hurry, maybe we can snag a few before Mouse eats them all."
Vincent smiled. He seemed glad at the lightening of the mood, but thoughtful. Catherine tucked her arm in his and allowed herself a mental sigh of relief. One small seed, she thought to herself. One brick at a time.
* * *
The collapse of a log in the fireplace brought Catherine out of her reverie. Glancing at her watch in chagrin, she moved quickly to the bedroom and began shedding her clothes. She hadn't taken the afternoon off to sit around lost in thought, but to give herself time to get ready without having to rush. As she entered the bathroom she had a sudden vivid memory of running to the door on this same night two years ago, rushed and damp, to greet her father. The memory was so startling and so vivid it brought tears to her eyes. This was the night when the wall between living and dead grew thin, she remembered. Blinking back the tears she remembered her last sight of her father, in the Tunnels below. More and more since then she had come to believe that was no dream or hallucination brought on by wishful thinking and grief, but a true vision. She drew strength from the memory. Oh, Daddy, she thought. I've discovered you don't just have a happy life, you have to build it for yourself, piece by careful piece. And you can't ever stop, or let your attention wander even for a minute. It's very hard... but I'm trying... Stepping under the soothing water, she remembered last June ...
* * *
The New York summer had not yet turned into steam bath that would drive everyone but overworked Assistant DAs out of town. Joe should still be in a good mood, Catherine told herself as she approached his office door. "Joe--got a minute?" Catherine knew perfectly well he had, because she had sneaked a surreptitious peek at his calendar and timed this carefully.
"Sure, as long as you promise not to ask me for vacation. The Ramirez trial is coming up next week, and I want you in on it."
"Actually, Joe, the job is what I want to talk about, but I promise I have no vacation requests and I was hoping you'd want me in court on the Ramirez case."
"Oh, great," said Joe, somewhat taken aback. "You're not going to ask for a raise, are you?"
"No ..." Catherine smiled. "Although I probably deserve one. I... I've been thinking, in a few months it will be two years since I started this job. I want to talk about where I go from here."
"There are a lot of places you could go from here, Cathy-as long as it's not to Providence."
"I promise you, Joe, there's absolutely no chance of that! I don't want to leave New York."
Joe looked like he was dying to ask her why, but instead he said carefully, "I think you do very well in court. I was hoping you liked it well enough to switch to the trial division permanently and do less investigation." Joe took a deep breath and plunged in. "Look, you've done great as an investigator. I admit in the beginning I had a chip on my shoulder about you so you felt you had to prove yourself, but you've done that ten times over. You take too many chances sometimes, it's not worth it!"
"I know. I agree."
"And don't give me a hard time about my big brother complex, Chandler. We've got plenty of other people to... what did you say?" Joe snapped his head up and his mouth shut.
"I said I agree. When I came here, Joe, I didn't just need to prove to you and myself that I could do the job. I also had to prove to myself that my assault hadn't paralyzed me, made me afraid to ever take risks again, even when it was important."
"Sort of like getting back on the horse right away after you've been thrown off?" Joe asked gently.
Catherine nodded. "It was very important to show myself I hadn't lost my nerve. But I think maybe I over-compensated. This year... well, I've just come to close to the brink too often."
Joe watched as she struggled for the right words, fingering the crystal she wore around her neck while she stared out the window. "Maybe I realized I can't act as if I exist in a vacuum... that if I put myself in danger, I'm not the only one who could get hurt."
"Cathy--what exactly do you mean?"
As Catherine turned from the window she seemed to pull herself back from far away. "I mean ... well, Joe, look what I put you through. I know that I kid you a lot about acting like my brother, but don't think it doesn't mean a lot to me that you care. The doorman told me what you did after my father died."
"I just wanted to make sure you hadn't fallen and cracked your head or something ... most accidents happen in the home you know, and..."
"Joe ... it's OK. Really." Her tone became more businesslike. "I think I'd like to do more trial work, maybe concentrate on child abuse and battered women. It's not like there isn't enough misery here to go around. Let somebody else investigate serial murderers and drug dealers for awhile."
"Like maybe the cops? That is their job, you know."
"Promise to remind me if I forget? And if I find out about something or stumble across valuable witnesses, I promise I won't go to meet any strangers alone in a dark alley."
"You've got a deal, Radcliffe!" He leaned back in his chair, grinning from ear to ear. "You know, I think you just made my life a lot less complicated."
Catherine smiled at him in return. "Mine too, Joe," she replied fervently. "Mine too."
Leaving Joe's office Catherine decided she deserved an early lunch in a quiet corner. It had been easier than she thought, but any serious conversation with Joe these days was full of unasked and unanswered questions lurking beneath the surface. Bless him for not asking. Next to the threat of losing Vincent, the most frightening thing about the events of last spring was the fear that she had articulated to Father. It had never occurred to her before she said it, but once uttered it preyed on her. Was it possible that, unconsciously, she put herself in danger because she knew it would draw Vincent to her? Why would she do such a thing? In some ways, answering that question was the hardest task of all those she'd had to face in that dark time. Slowly, she worked her way to the heart of it.
When had she first begun to know that her love for Vincent had passion in it? Maybe that first magical Samhain they spent together. For a long time afterward she told herself that she'd run after Vincent because she feared for his safety, but in retrospect she could admit that a little twinge of jealousy had something to do with it. She remembered the knowing smile Brigit gave her. Maybe it was true about the Irish having second sight. Brigit certainly knew what kind of love it was before she did. When Vincent almost died in that cave-in, there was no way to avoid facing the truth. This was no Platonic love, no matter how much they talked about it as if it were some third party apart from them. She admitted to herself it was there, but neither of them seemed to be willing to face the issue of what to do about it, until the anniversary of her mother's death sent her into that emotional tailspin. That was a painful time, but being born is not a process without pain. She looked on that time now as the end of the transformation from the old Catherine Chandler to the new ... and the new had no doubts about what she wanted.
At first she thought the slow progress of their relationship was due to Vincent's innocence. From things he and Father had said it was clear to her that neither of them had ever expected such a love was possible for Vincent because of his difference. It had been hard for her to understand how he had escaped as long as he had. There was more than one woman in the Tunnels in the right age group. It hadn't taken her very long to decide that Vincent was the most beautiful and wonderful man in the known universe, how could it escape the attention of those who grew up with him? She decided that very fact had made him seem too much like a brother to them and concluded some unconscious incest taboo was operating.
Then Lisa appeared, and Catherine realized that her task would be harder than she had thought. She was glad and honored that Vincent told her what happened ... but she also knew that half a lifetime's belief would not be eroded overnight. She was determined that it would be eroded; that he was as wrong in this fear as in his other fears that he would hurt her.
After Paracelsus died she had a dream ... disjointed images of Vincent's painful confession about Lisa; of his killings to protect her; images of fire, from a raging forest fire to the comfort of a hearth. Waking suddenly in the middle of the night, she had her answer. She knew that her first step had to be the one she had just taken, to cease putting herself in danger when it could be avoided. The second step was to tell Vincent what she had learned, and get him to believe it ... but she knew he was not yet ready to hear it.
* * *
Part Two
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